


Protect Your King

by rabidchild67



Series: Undeniable Chemistry [16]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is pretty pissed when he discovers Clint and Peter have been lying to him, but then he learns the reason – Keller’s back in town to finish the job he started last time: to kill Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the long-overdue _actual_ next chapter of my [ Undeniable Chemistry series ](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/tag/series%3A%20undeniable%20chemistry). You don’t have to read the whole thing to get what’s happening here, but it references the events in [I Keep Missing You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/528001) and [Five Times Clinton Bathed Neal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/528004).

**One Year Ago**

Neal startled as the door to the workroom slammed open, hit the wall and nearly shut again. He straightened his back, rolled his head on his shoulders, and looked up at a very incensed Matthew Keller.

“What have you done?” Keller said, his face beet red with fury. He paced back and forth in a tight little line, like a dog eager to be let off its lead.

“I think you know or you wouldn’t be standing there.” He supposed he ought to have expected Keller to put his hands on him, but the violence of it was still startling. He saw stars as his head bounced off the nearby wall when Keller shoved him against it.

“Why?” Keller asked, his voice strangled, almost a sob. 

Neal looked at him with barely restrained contempt. He supposed he understood Keller’s frustration – Neal _had_ just screwed his relationship with the Russians pretty much to hell again. And he’d do it again if he could. “Don’t you know by now?”

“You hate me that much?” Keller let go of Neal’s shirt and pushed off him, stood there fairly vibrating with menace.

“Hate doesn’t cover it, Keller. And tell me why you would think, in a hundred years, that I would ever willingly help you?”

“I ought to kill you now.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t already, but then again, you still need me to mix these inks for you, get this little printing operation going. You’re too predictable.”

Keller pulled a gun from somewhere and advanced on Neal again, held the barrel against his forehead and caressed the trigger with his fingertip. Neal’s eyes on his were unwavering. “We’ll see about that,” he said, and left the room. 

Thirty minutes later, the FBI and SWAT teams blew down the doors, having been helped by Moz’s connections in finding Keller’s location for the printing of counterfeit Euros he’d kidnapped Neal to help him get going. Ten minutes after that, Neal lay bleeding out on the floor, Clinton Jones’ arms around him, begging him not to die.

xXxXxXxXx

**Present Day**

Neal sidled into Peter’s office and saw that Diana was already there, sitting in the second guest chair. “You want to tell me what was so damn urgent?”

“New case!” Peter answered, all chipper smiles. “And it’s right up your alley!”

Neal and Diana glanced at each other and then fixed Peter with their best _cut the shit_ looks. 

Peter laid out a series of file folders on the desk in front of them. Neal picked one up and found a sheaf of photos inside, of models both male and female in a series of fashions. He raised an eyebrow. “Counterfeit couture,” Peter said in answer to their unspoken questions. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Diana groaned.

“Do we get to go shopping?” Neal said over her, enthused.

“My answer to both of you is, ‘No.’ An international ring of counterfeiters is believed to have settled in New York, and we’ve got intel that indicates they have been buying stolen designs for the upcoming Fashion Week.”

“That’s not too far off, Peter,” Neal pointed out. “Won’t most of the fashions be in production by now? What’s to steal?”

“With manufacturing in China these days, knockoffs can be on the market within weeks of a designer’s show,” Diana pointed out to him. “With even a few more weeks’ advance production time, the designers’ own originals could be on the racks before they even premiere.”

“Decreasing their value, an astute observation, Diana. Look at you, with the insider knowledge,” Neal said approvingly.

“Christy has a subscription to W.”

“Diana, you’ll be going undercover as up and coming new British designer Maisie Ashton; Neal, you’ll be her business partner, Alec Williams,” Peter said, handing them each a dossier on their undercover identities. 

“Do I get to put on an accent too?” Neal asked excitedly.

Peter gave him a put-upon look. “No. You’re an American.”

“Well, are we a couple?”

“It’s strictly business.”

“Can I at least have an unrequited crush?” 

Peter gave him another Look and continued with the briefing. 

“The technical unit has been at work seeding the internet with buzz about Maisie’s designs. Here are some pictures of them on the red carpet.”

Diana picked up one of the pictures he indicated and looked at it critically. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“It’s Selena Gomez!” Neal said excitedly. He peered closely at the photo. “Excellent Photoshopping – I’ll have to go down there and pick up some tips.” He pressed his lips together as his outburst got another Look from Peter and he visibly calmed himself.

Peter couldn’t hide a smile at his enthusiasm. “Field services is also setting up a studio space for you, seamstresses, models, and meetings with the press, particularly this man,” he laid another photo down in front of them. “Austin Chambers is Editor-in-Chief of _Womensware_ magazine, and our top suspect. He’s made several trips to China in the last year and a half, and he looks good for it. I’ve arranged an interview with him and Maisie at the studio space in two days. Between now and then, you’ll both need to study up on the industry and your designs.” Peter pulled out his last show-and-tell piece, a large portfolio filled with women’s fashion designs. “And maybe learn how to sew.”

“What? Aw, man!” Diana complained.

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk you through it,” Neal said kindly, beaming at Peter. He was going to enjoy this assignment a lot, if for no other reason than to tweak Diana. She gave him a dirty look. “I’m clearly the brains of this outfit.” He thought a moment. “That’ll be a good angle to play up – disgruntled partner, looking to break away…”

“Good thinking – it should make you an easy mark for Chambers.”

Neal rubbed his hands together. “I love a good con.”

“Sting,” Peter corrected.

“That’s what I said.”

\----

Neal went with Diana later that afternoon to inspect their studio space, and if he had to say so, the field team had made the place look flawless. Half-completed fashions – that he noted with approval reflected the designs from the portfolio – adorned a variety of tailors’ forms, and there were cutting and sewing stations set up throughout. If he didn’t know better, an episode of _Project Runway_ might play out at any moment. The place wouldn’t appear to be operational until necessary, and then the space would be populated with day workers and agents to make it look legit. 

Neal was looking out the windows – a large, floor-to-ceiling series of them that looked out over 8th Avenue – when Diana came into the space. “What are you doing standing over there?” she asked, annoyed.

“Taking in the view. We’ve got an unobstructed view up 34th.”

“Well, come over here, and check this stuff out.” 

He strolled over to where she was fiddling with a pile of small, innocuous-looking pieces of flat, white plastic. “RFID tags?” he guessed.

“You win the $100 question – would you care to move to the next level?”

He smiled. “Sure do, Reege.”

“Do you know what these babies are capable of?”

“They’re used to track inventory, supply chain movements, even Satchmo has one in him in case he gets lost.”

“Yes, but these are some new ones the Bureau’s using; they have a built-in antenna and battery that transmits information to a central database via WiFi networks. If this case gets to the point where we’re trying to track down where the suspects are, we’ll sew these into the clothes and the perps will be none the wiser.”

“Almost as good as a tracker,” he commented wryly. And shuddered, reminding himself not to bring it up with Mozzie.

Once their tour of the facility was done, they found themselves out on the street. “Hey, feel like getting a late lunch? I’m starving,” Diana said.

“Sure, you buying?”

She gave him a look that could fell a charging water buffalo, but eventually said, “Sure. You know anywhere around here?”

“Nothing but cheap beer at twice the price for the commuters this close to Penn Station. Let’s head downtown a bit.”

They stopped by a little crepe shop Neal knew in the East Village and enjoyed a light lunch. 

“Look at the time!” Neal said, glancing at his phone as he finished off his iced tea. “It’s nearly 3:00 – Peter will have our hides.”

Diana shrugged and called the waiter over for a dessert menu. “Ah, he’s headed down to DC for quarterly reviews,” she said dismissively. “We can take our time.”

“You sure?” Neal looked at her curiously. Diana wasn’t one to play hooky, least of all with him.

“I’m sure. Besides, I have _got_ to try this banana and Nutella concoction they’ve got on the menu. Want to split one?”

After lunch, Diana suggested they make an early day of it; Neal suspected this was payback for Peter making her deal with fashion people, and who was he to argue. As she was dropping him at his front door, she asked him if he had any plans that night. 

“Not really. Might go check out the Man Ray exhibit at the Whitney again, since it’s so early. You?”

She pulled a sad face. “Nothing – Christy’s out of town at a medical conference. Hate going home when she’s not there.”

“Want to hang out with me? Wasn’t planning much more than ordering a pizza when I got home.”

Her face brightened. “You don’t mind?”

“Nah – how many times have you guys looked after me with Clint up in Boston? I must owe you a few nights out. Want to come upstairs for a drink?”

She smiled, and seemed relieved not to have to go home alone. “That would be great, thanks.”

\----

The next morning, Neal was just heading out the front door to catch a cab downtown when Diana pulled up to the curb. “Hey sexy, want a ride?” she asked with a laugh. 

He raised an eyebrow. “What brings you all the way up here?”

She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed at something. “Peter. Turns out he scheduled some other activities around this fashion case. You and I are supposed to go and interview models for our runway show.”

“Really?” he said with growing interest. He got into the car and pulled the door shut. “This may be my favorite case ever!”

“Ease up, buster, you’re engaged to be married,” Diana chided as she pulled out into traffic. 

“We have a deal – I can look but not touch,” he said with a grin. “Where are we headed?”

“Some agency not too far from here.”

Neal couldn’t resist rubbing his hands together with excitement, if only for the fact that he knew Diana hated doing this and he wanted to rub it in. Then he noticed her outfit. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” he said, indicating her off the rack business suit.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“You don’t exactly exude ‘artsy clothing designer.’ Here.” He handed her the fake glasses he usually wore on cases and his hat, then looked her up and down. “I can’t do anything about the shoes, but this’ll have to do for now. Don’t suppose you’ve got a scarf around here anywhere?”

She gave him a nasty look.

“Then we’ll be late – we’re fabulous fashion types, right? We can do that.”

They made a pit stop at a cheap accessory store on 8th Ave. and were only fifteen minutes late for their appointment in the Meat Packing District. Neal had made Diana don the glasses and hat, plus enough scarves and wrist bangles to choke an elephant. He’d also broken a pen and smudged her fingers with ink, then pulled her hair into an artfully messed ponytail at the side of her head. “One more thing,” he said thoughtfully, and shoved a pencil into the mess he’d made of her hair. 

“Now, my turn.” He got out of the car, threw his jacket on the back seat, straightened out his vest and rolled up his sleeves, then finally hitched his pants up just slightly to accentuate his package. “What do you think?”

Diana stared at his crotch and raised an eyebrow. “I think Clint's a lucky man. Come on, you know I hate being late.”

Neal felt a blush rising in his cheeks as he let her usher him inside.

\----

Neal loved going undercover – any kind of sanctioned con always got him excited. As the agency head paraded an array of beautiful young women before them, he fully embodied his character, throwing the occasional dirty look at “Maisie” when she wasn’t looking, or rolling his eyes around her back when she made an observation. He figured he might as well practice for the meeting with Chambers the next day. 

As the meeting wrapped up and Diana chatted up a few of the models, Neal reviewed their headshots with the agency head, a Mrs. Paterson. “I like her look, and hers,” he said thoughtfully, handing her a pair of headshots back. “They’ll complement our aesthetic well. Have you got any boys?”

“Well, of course, but your assistant didn’t mention that for _this_ show.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s because Maisie didn’t tell him. Christ, do I have to do everything?” He clenched his fist and then made a show of calming himself. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to see our dirty laundry, but this so-called ‘partnership of equals’,” he made air quotes, “is beginning to feel like some of us are more equal than others.” 

Mrs. Paterson made clucking noises of commiseration. “I know the feeling, doll. But at least you’ve all got a showcase at Fashion Week, right? That’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“If we make it through without killing each other. She may be the creative, but I do all the work.” He flopped down in a nearby chair, a petulant pout on his face. If he wasn’t mistaken, Mrs. Paterson was eyeing him thoughtfully. 

\----

“Well, that was fun,” Diana said unenthusiastically as they made their way back to her car. She pulled all of the bracelets Neal had made her wear off her wrists with some frustration – there were perhaps 40 of them.

“Don’t look so glum – wait’ll we do the actual show! Think of the pretty girls.”

Diana scowled, tossed him his hat and unlocked the car. “I’m not allowed. Unlike Clint, Christy won’t let me look but not touch.”

“Aw,” Neal said with a sympathetic pout as he got into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. “Speaking of my better half, I haven’t talked to him in two days,” Neal said, pulling out his cell.

“You make with the schmoopy talk and I’ll put a bullet in you.”

“You used to be a lot more fun on cases,” he accused playfully.

“I just feel so out of my depth on this one,” she confessed.

“I promise I’ll give you a primer,” he said, but then his attention shifted when his call went through. 

_”Special Agent Clinton Jones.”_

“God, that makes me hot to hear you say,” Neal purred by way of greeting. Just because Clint was hours away up in Boston running that field office’s White Collar Unit, didn’t mean Neal and he couldn’t connect regularly.

“I thought I said no schmoop?” Diana hissed and he ignored her.

_”Hi, Babe. What’s up?”_

“On a big new case with Diana. The latest Crime of the Century of the Week.”

_”Great. More bank robberies?”_

“Nah, counterfeit fashions. Fun stuff.” Diana snorted. “For some of us.”

_”That’s great, sounds right up her alley.”_ Clint sounded distracted, like he’d hardly been listening.

“I’m going to teach her how to sew.”

“Over my dead body.”

_”Sounds great.”_

“Something wrong, Clint?” Having lived apart now for just over a year, Neal knew the ins and outs of his lover’s distracted moods; there was annoyed-with-his-boss distracted, and driving-in-mind-numbing-Boston-traffic distracted, and Neal's personal favorite, just-talked-to-his-mother-distracted-and-trying-not-to-punch-a-hole-in-the-wall. But this was something else; there was an undercurrent in his voice that Neal picked up on but couldn’t identify. 

_”Just sitting in traffic.”_

“OK, then I’ll let you get back to it. Call you tomorrow with more gory details, then.”

_”That’ll be just –“_

“Great?” Neal answered a bit more sharply than he’d wanted. “Love you,” he finished, pouring as much emotion into those two words as possible.

_“Love you too.”_ For this phrase, at least, Clint sounded like he meant it.

\----

Later that afternoon, Neal waltzed into Peter’s office to leave a stack of file folders on his desk for when he got back – an analysis of some online bank frauds he thought had a common MO that they could talk over when Peter got back from DC. He snagged a Post-it from the pad that sat on the desk and reached for a pen from the holder that sat beside it, then paused, his hand hovering over it. Sitting in the cup sat Peter’s lucky Quantico pen – the real one, not the ones he doled out from time to time as incentives for the junior agents. He took it in his hand and stood up, staring at it.

“There you are, Caffrey,” Diana said, poking her head into the office. “Our fake assistant just got a call from Austin Chambers – debrief in five minutes. What’s that?”

“Peter’s Quantico pen – he never leaves the office without it.”

“What are you talking about? Of course he does. He goes home every night, doesn’t he?”

He looked at her. “No, I mean he never travels without it. You know the story – it was the one he used on all his exams…”

“…and he got straight A’s the entire time,” Diana finished for him – the story was as ingrained on all their psyches as their ABC’s. “So he forgot it – big deal.”

“No, he says it’s his good luck charm – he won’t even go on vacation without it.”

She shrugged. “Well, he forgot it this time. Now come on – we’ve got a lot of prep to do for this interview with Chambers tomorrow.”

Neal wrote his note and followed her into the conference room next door.

\----

It took longer than Neal expected to get everything squared away. First, there were arrangements with field services to be ironed out – they’d have to make Maisie’s studio look like a functioning fashion house by morning since the interview would take place there. Second, there was the wiretap warrant, an easy detail that Diana found hard to give up to a junior agent, though Peter had been after her lately to learn to delegate more. Finally, there was the matter of the interview itself, for which Diana, who didn’t know a kick pleat from a cap sleeve, needed to have an insider’s knowledge of fashion jargon, not to mention an intimate familiarity with the made-up fashion lines “Maisie” had put out over the last two years.

“This is hopeless. I’m hopeless,” she moaned. “I need a break – want to get some dinner?”

Neal looked at his watch – it was already 7:00. “Maybe order in? We need you to get this by 10:00 am.”

“I can’t look at these four walls for another minute or I’ll scream,” she said bleakly. 

“Fine, maybe a change of venue will reinvigorate you. Want to hit Despina’s for a quick bite, then come back?” Despina’s was the team’s favorite Greek place up the street; they all ate there so often, there was a standing table for them.

“What if we get it to go, head to my place and get _comfortable_? I’m honestly going cross-eyed here.”

Neal took pity on her and agreed.

\----

“No!” Neal said perhaps too sternly. “No more wine for you – you’re cut off. You still can’t tell me what you closed your show with last year.”

“A wedding dress?” Diana guessed.

“What shape?”

“They come in shapes?”

“Oy vey ist mir,” Neal said, “you’re hopeless.”

“You speak Yiddish now?”

“My future mother-in-law says my accent is perfect.”

“I’m done. We’re done. Can’t we be done?” she whined.

Neal looked at her sideways; her eyes were drooping with exhaustion and her hair was a mess from when she literally pulled at it trying to remember the answers to the likely questions Neal had prepared for the interview. “Fine. But if you embarrass me tomorrow, you will not hear the end of it.”

“I swear your little Eliza Doolittle will perform as she has been taught. Now, I’ve got to get some sleep!”

Neal got up to go, grabbing his suit jacket. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Wh – you’re leaving?”

“Well, yeah – I’ve got to get home.”

“It’s so late. And I can’t drive you.”

“I can walk – it’s not that far.”

“It’s thirty blocks!” He shrugged. “Besides, the Marshals’ll have a cow. Come on, stay on my couch, we’ll get out of here in time to go to your place so you can shower and then meet Chambers at 10:00.”

“I dunno, Di –“

“I’ll buy you breakfast.”

Neal looked at her for a beat – she certainly seemed overly anxious to keep him here. “Fine, but answer me two things first – when does Christy get home from her trip, and when did you get so needy?”

She beamed at him. “She’s home Friday night. And I hate sleeping alone.”

“I’ve got news for you – you’re still sleeping alone.”

“You know what I mean – it’s nice to have another living being in the apartment.”

“Remind me to get you a cat.”

\----

“I look like an extra from the movie _Fame,_ ” Diana complained as she emerged from her bedroom with a Neal-approved, kooky-designer look that involved shorts, ripped tights, one of Christy’s favorite bras and a bolero jacket Diana thought she’d burned in ’93.

“Your hair’s not messy enough,” Neal commented, canceling the call he’d been placing to Clint – it was the second he’d placed that morning and there had been no answer. 

“Well, you’re not the one who has to brush it out later.”

“A fair point. Where’s your gun?”

“You don’t want to know,” she said with a scowl and led the way out of the apartment.

An hour later, they emerged from June’s house, Neal freshly showered and changed, and headed down the block to a coffee shop he frequented that made a terrific omelet. As they approached the corner entrance, there was a sequence of loud popping sounds somewhere mid-block and behind them.

“Down! Get down!” Diana yelled, rushing Neal from behind, and shoving him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades. He tripped and nearly fell, winding up in a crouch against the nearest wall, Diana beside him, crouched down as well and facing the direction where the sound had come from. She’d produced her gun from _somewhere_ – truly, Neal wanted to know where it had been hidden – and her eyes were scanning the streets. Around them, pedestrians panicked and began to rush away at the commotion, some of them looking around as if expecting to be shot at any moment.

“Diana, what the hell –“ Neal began, looking at her, incredulous.

“That didn’t sound like gunshots to you?”

“No, it sounded like firecrackers – summer’s almost over, and some kids are getting their jollies.” He stood and pulled her to her feet.

She looked up at him sheepishly. “Guess that anti-terrorism course I took at Quantico last month kicked in, eh? Sorry about that.”

“Sure, no problem,” Neal said as he opened the door to the coffee shop for her, but he noticed she didn’t look any less tense as they walked inside.

\----

“Look at her over there,” Neal said. Their suspect, fashion editor Austin Chambers, had brought a photographer and a pair of models along for the interview with “Maisie” for _Womensware_ magazine. Neal was texting something to Clint – who had still not called Neal back from that morning, which was unusual – as Chambers sidled up to him. Diana was posing with the models flanking her, dressed in some of their fake fashions.

“She’s a natural,” Chambers said in a posh British accent Neal pegged for a fake almost from the moment they’d met.

“A natural snake in the grass,” Neal muttered. “Taking meetings with LVMH, thinking I don’t know about it.”

“Excuse me?”

Neal held his breath while putting pressure on his sinuses so that his face would redden. “Nothing.” 

“We can talk off the record.”

“Nothing’s off the record with the press. I’ve said too much already.”

“My friend Mrs. Paterson told me she thought you were unhappy, and even if she hadn’t, I can read between the lines here. I think I can maybe help you out a little, Alec.”

“What? How?”

“I mean, someone’s got to look after your financial security, and if it’s not you, then who?”

“What are you saying?”

Chambers eyed the models and Diana and shook his head slightly. “Not here. Meet for coffee later? I’ll lay out my proposal.”

A round of raucous laughter from across the room as Diana flirted outrageously with the photographer caught both their attentions. Neal narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like a plan – let’s say 3:00?”

The rest of the photo shoot took another hour, and Neal was actually hanging up the clothes when Diana came to collect him. “What are you doing?”

“If they’re not hung properly, they’ll look like ass on the runway,” he pointed out.

“Oh, my God, you’re such a weirdo,” she said, and pulled him out of there. “Come on, let’s debrief the team and get ready for your coffee date.”

“Meeting. It’s a meeting.”

“Not the way Chambers was checking out your ass, it isn’t.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “I must be slipping – I didn’t even notice. So, back to the office?”

“Yes. But first, a pitstop at my house so I can change – these damn shorts are giving me a wedge!”

\----

“Myra!” Neal greeted Clint’s mother warmly when she called his cell phone; he was back at his desk, killing time before his coffee appointment. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“I was calling to see if you got the bee pollen tablets we were talking about last time I was up there?” Clint’s mother was, if you asked Clint, way too dependent on natural and homeopathic remedies. “You were looking a little peaky.”

“I can’t say that I’ve made it to the health food store,” Neal demurred.

“Well, don’t bother because I just dropped some in the mail for you. And you can tell that son of mine I sent some to him in Boston when you see him tonight.”

“Tonight? He’s not coming down for another week,” Neal said, wondering what she was talking about; Clint would be down for the Labor Day weekend soon, but not imminently. 

“Oh, uhhhh… I must be mistaken – I meant next time you talk to him. I guess I got confuzzled,” Myra replied, and Neal could almost hear the backpedaling. Myra might be flighty from time to time, but, like Jewish mothers everywhere, she knew the exact whereabouts and schedules of her children, sometimes better than they did themselves. And she was also a horrible liar.

“Ah ha ha ha, Myra – maybe you should hang on to that bee pollen,” Neal laughed, playing it off and changed the subject to Clint’s little sister Imani’s newest boyfriend – always a popular topic – but inside his head, things suddenly weren’t adding up.

\----

“Alec, hello,” Austin Chambers greeted warmly, planting kisses on both Neal's cheeks European-style.

Neal was sure to squeeze the other man’s upper arms in a friendly way before they parted, then sat down at the table he’d already occupied while Chambers went off to order his own coffee. “So how has the rest of your day been?” Chambers asked with perfectly feigned interest when he’d returned, taking the seat across the table from Neal.

Neal frowned. “I’ve had better,” he said.

“Oh no, not more drama about LVMH?”

Neal let his face go slack as if a secret had been spilled; naturally, the rumor had been leaked in the blogosphere earlier in the day in a way Chambers would hear. “You know? Well then everyone must know – you know how gossipy this industry can be!”

“Now, now, Alec, she only took a phone call from them – it’s not the end of the world.”

“Calls, Austin, as in several. She’s going to cut me out of the company for sure.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

“Oh, I am very certain – I’m not her only victim, you know – there were other founding members of this company before, and she just cast them aside like they were nothing to her, steps on her ladder to success. That bitch! When I think of the blood sweat and tears I’ve poured into this company!”

“No to mention love,” Chambers prompted.

Neal made an outraged sound, getting up a really great head of steam. “Yes – love! We were like brother and sister! Oh my God, it’s over. My life is over.” He started fanning himself with a hand, flapping it outrageously. Surely, he thought, he must be overselling this, but he was wrong.

Chambers swung around the table to sit in the chair beside Neal and put an arm around his shoulders. “Come now, it’s not over. Especially if you make the first move?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have some business associates who are also very interested in Maisie’s designs.”

“I fail to see how this is helping me.”

“They’re interested in seeing them ahead of the show, so that they can reproduce them.”

“Y-you mean counterfeits? That’s – I can’t even – that would devalue the collection! Maisie would be ruined.“ 

“Exactly.”

Neal gave Chambers his best slowly-dawning-realization expression. “Ohhhh.”

“Yes. You get back at her for cutting you out, plus you make some money on the side. Who knows – maybe enough to start up your own company.”

“I – I think I’m in. What do I have to do?”

\----

“…so we’re going to set up the sting at the fake fashion show in two weeks.”

“Congratulations, you’ve made Junior Suit,” Moz commented wryly.

Neal stuck out his tongue. “Buzzkill.” He poured himself another glass of wine and rose, walking over to the terrace windows and staring out over the city. The sun was beginning to set, making the sides of the surrounding buildings look like they were on fire. It was a beautiful night – the weather was surprisingly agreeable for August in New York – and he was feeling like celebrating the day’s successes. “Hey, feel like going out for dinner with me? It’s a perfect night for an outdoor café.” 

“I like it when we eat in.”

“Just last week you were complaining to me that we never go anywhere, like I was your neglectful boyfriend or something.”

“A girl can change her mind.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “Well, forget you – I’m going out by myself, then. I’m not going to let this perfect summer weather pass me by.”

“No! You can’t!”

“What?”

“I mean, heavy food and warm weather – you’ll get all logy… you hate that…”

“What is up with you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. And come away from the window, you’re making me nervous.”

“Nervous? Moz, I’m twelve feet from the balustrade, and _inside._ What is up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re mother henning me.”

“I am not.”

“Last time you did that…”

“Am not, am not, am not.”

“…was when you ratted me out to Peter about going after Fowler. You’re hiding something.” He pointed a finger at Moz.

Moz actually pressed his lips together and mimed locking them and throwing away the key.

“Spill, Moz, or it’ll be torture. You forget I know where all the bodies are buried. And your stashes of _Wonder Lad_ comics.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I know a certain collector…”

“Keller’s back!” Moz blurted.

“What?!”

“It’s Keller, he’s back in town.”

Neal physically recoiled, a cold heaviness settling in his gut. _Keller was back._ The man who had, just one year ago, kidnapped Neal and tried to murder him. He was reeling with shock when the door opened.

“Hey, guys – who wants to have a game night?” Diana said brightly as she walked into the apartment, an actual Scrabble game under her arm. Two sets of eyes regarded her with shocked expressions and she immediately threw Moz a glare. “I knew it, Mozzie, you folded like a cheap umbrella didn’t you?”

“You don’t know the power he has over me!” Moz squeaked.

“I asked you to stay with him for two lousy hours…”

“Of course,” Neal interrupted. “How did I not see this? This case we’re working, you and I? It’s just a front, isn’t it, something Peter cooked up to keep me distracted?”

“Well…” she said, looking away.

“And to keep me safe,” Neal concluded, his voice rising. “That’s why you’ve been my shadow all week, you’re _protecting me_?!?” 

“Neal, come on.”

“What, did you think I couldn’t take care of myself?” Diana didn’t answer, couldn’t look at him. “Did Peter…?” Still no movement out of her. “It was Clint,” he concluded. Her eyes flicked to his, and he knew he was right. Well, that explained Clint’s distance and unavailability the last few days; if he’d talked to Neal for any length of time at all, Neal would have known something was up. “And here I thought we were really getting a groove going on this case, but it was all to sideline me.”

“Neal, come on, it’s a legit case – Peter thought it’d be good for you.”

“I think I know what Peter thought. I don’t ever think I’ve felt this marginalized in my entire life.”

“Neal, come on, look at it from their perspective.”

“I’m finding that a little hard at the moment.”

“Neal, stop it!” Moz said finally. “If you must know, it was me that started it all – I told the Suit about Keller. Word on the street was he’s back in town to finish the job on you.”

Neal felt the blood drain from his face. “He – what?”

“He put the word out that he was out for your blood, that he was going to get you once and for all. Peter and Clint came up with the plan, but we all agreed it was better to keep you out of it. It’s Keller, Neal, _he almost killed you_.”

Neal stared at Moz and Diana for a full minute. “No. Keller wouldn’t.”

“He’s made no secret of his hatred for you, Neal,” Diana pointed out.

“Keller doesn’t act unless he’s got a motive, even against me – especially against me. Where are Clint and Peter now?”

“Meeting with an asset – Peter thought they were getting pretty close to tracking him down.”

Neal covered his face with his hands. Of all the times they’d had to deal with Keller – hadn’t the FBI ever learned? Neal knew how he ticked better than anybody, and even then Keller was two and three steps ahead. “Who’s the asset?” he asked in a low voice.

“Jean-Denis Boucher – he’s some agent at Interpol who’s been tracking Keller through Europe.”

“He’s also been in the back pocket of the Russians for years.” Neal fought hard to contain his anger and fear. He walked up to Diana and held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Picking up on his intensity, she complied, and Neal dialed Clint’s cell, muttering, “He won’t pick up my calls, maybe…”

_”Hey, Di, we’re a little busy here…”_

“It’s not Diana, it’s me. Where are you?”

_”Neal, uhhhh…”_

“Don’t ‘Neal’ me, Clint, _where are you?_ ”

_”So I guess you figured it out. But listen, we’re about to do this thing, so don’t worry, OK?”_

“Clint, don’t! Don’t go in there, whatever you –“

_”I gotta go, babe – I’ll see you later. I love you.”_ He rang off.

Neal closed his eyes, dropped his hand and held the phone against his throat. “Where are they, Diana?”

“I dunno – some building downtown? Peter emailed the address.”

“Get it, we have to go down there. Whatever they think they’re getting out of this meeting with Boucher, they’re wrong. It’s a trap.”

\----

The building on Worth Street was a textile manufacturing plant at the start of the 20th century, and had been converted into a mixed use property sometime in the 90’s. The unit they were going to, Neal noticed with a sinking feeling in his belly, was at the back of the building and was up for lease, so it was empty, its door wide open and the lights on.

“Peter!” Diana exclaimed as soon as she and Neal set foot inside – Peter lay in the middle of the floor, not moving. Neal got to him first, turned him over onto his back and felt his neck for a pulse – which was thankfully beating strongly. A gash at his temple may have accounted for his state of unconsciousness. Neal settled his knee on the floor and looked around the rest of the room as Diana called it in. 

“Where’s Clint?” he said, getting up and exploring the rest of the studio; it was an open plan office space with two smaller rooms at the back, plus a bathroom. There was no one else there. “Di,” he said, his voice tense as he emerged; she came over and laid a hand on his shoulder, a silent plea for him to stay calm as she continued to give information over the phone. 

Peter moaned and Neal returned to his side, a hand on his chest, calling his name.

“Neal?” He said, blinking with confusion as he opened his eyes.

“You’re OK, buddy.”

“Clinton!” Peter said, sitting up abruptly. He soon regretted it, as he clutched his head. “We were ambushed. Where is he?”

“Not here.”

Peter’s eyes on his were stricken. “Neal, I’m so sorry, whoever they were, they got the drop on us.”

“Keller wasn’t with them?”

“Not that I saw, but then it all happened pretty fast.” He tried to stand up, and Neal made him stay where he was. 

“You shouldn’t move until the medics get here,” he said. 

Peter was shaking his head. “They were waiting,” he said, desperate, “we played right into his hands.”

Neal didn’t find it hard to bite his tongue; he had rarely been the kind of person to enjoy saying, “I told you so.”

“Neal, I found this.” Diana handed him an iPhone she had taken from a card table that stood in the far corner. Neal took it from her and activated it; the picture of him and Clint taken on the night of their engagement on the device’s wallpaper confirmed who its owner was. Neal resisted the urge to fling it across the room in frustration. He held it to his chest and tried to calm himself, shaking with anger.

“Neal,” Peter began, his voice breaking, but then the phone rang. “Peter Burke,” the read-out said.

“He’s using your phone,” Neal said, tapping the “answer” button and turning away from Peter and Di. “Keller, you son of a bitch,” he spat into it.

He was answered with a chuckle. _“Ah, Neal, have you still not learned you should better protect your king?”_


	2. Chapter 2

**One Year Ago**

Neal woke to smothering darkness and immediate panic. Not that he’d have shown it, but the increase in his breathing was noticed. 

“Look who’s awake.”

The hood or pillowcase that had been covering Neal's head was snatched away and he immediately put his hands up in a defensive posture as he blinked up at Matthew Keller.

“Aw, come on, I won’t hurt you,” he purred.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you,” Neal said, rubbing the sore spot on the side of his head where Keller’s men had hit him when they’d taken him from his apartment.

“That wasn’t me,” Keller pointed out, and extended a hand to help Neal to his feet, which he reluctantly took. The sensation of something sliding around his ankle let him know he was still wearing his anklet, which gave him a small stab of hope that Peter might find him soon.

Keller caught him glancing at it. “Don’t worry about that thing – we’ve spoofed the signal. Burke’ll think you’re at home while we have our little… confab.”

“What? How?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that – suffice to say there’s a small army of hackers somewhere in Ukraine who cracked it in about an hour. Now, on to the main event.” He left the small room where Neal woke up and Neal followed. The outer room was a large, open plan office with high ceilings; from the architecture he concluded it was pre-War, but the windows were all painted over so he could not see out. There was a warm glow of daylight outside of them, though, and from the angle of the light, he guessed it was now morning.

The room was also set up with sophisticated printing and imaging equipment, some of which Neal recognized immediately. “Holographic production? What are we counterfeiting this time?”

“Euros,” Keller explained without preamble, moving to an office at the far end. “And you’re going to help.”

“I’m afraid I’m no good with plates, Matthew.”

“I’ve got those already. I’ll need you for the inks.”

“Ah. And if I refuse?” 

Keller barely broke his stride as he turned to Neal. “Then I’ll kill you. But first, I have something else.” Neal followed - he had little choice.” 

When they reached the office, Keller unlocked the door and reached in to turn on a light. The inside was small, windowless, with a single bed in the corner – at least there was bedding on it, Neal noticed – and a variety of supplies that could be used in the production of paints. On an easel among these was a wooden panel of some age, the image of a bible scene painted on it – the angel addressing Abraham as Isaac lay on the altar beside him – but the varnish on it was peeling in some spots from age.

“Where’d you get it?” Neal asked, his curiosity about the painting so piqued that he forgot for the moment who he was with. He ran his fingertips over the outlines of the images. 

“A gallery in Toronto – picked it up for a song.”

“Knowing you, it was more like a smash and grab.”

“Potato, potahto.”

“It’s not here for me to admire. What am I painting on top of it?”

“Ever the astute observer. I need you to reproduce this,” Keller said, unscrolling a roll of glossy paper on a nearby table. 

“St. Nicholas of Mariupol,” Neal read the caption; the poster was a cheap reproduction easily found on the internet. “Icons are tricky, Matthew.”

“Which is why I got you the panel – the age of the wood will be the key test to authenticity.”

“And what makes you think I can do this without at least a first-gen image of the original? This poster is hardly the crispest of reproductions.”

Keller let go of the poster and the paper rolled itself up and fell to the floor. “I have faith in your abilities.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Never you mind. Can you do it?”

“Do I have much choice? It’ll take a week.”

“You have three days.”

Neal pursed his lips, annoyed. He crossed to the supplies Keller had compiled, taking an inventory of what was there. “I’ll need silver leaf, not gold,” he pointed out, tossing the box of gold leaf across the table. And natural light – this electric shit’ll screw with my perception of the colors.”

“Silver leaf won’t be a problem, but as for the light, I’m not letting you anywhere near an open window. And once the thing’s aged, the colors will be practically indistinguishable, so nice try.” 

Keller left and Neal stared at the panel in front of him. Well, it’d be one of the more interesting jobs he’d been asked to do, at least it had that going for it. And though Keller wouldn’t say, Neal knew exactly who this was for and the thought of it made his thoughts race; St. Nicholas was the patron saint of the town where Sergey Sidorov, the Russian gangster Keller was beholden to, had been born. 

He knew exactly what to do. 

\----

Neal finished the icon with six hours to spare, Keller rubbing his hands together as he inspected it. Neal had almost regretted the darkening agents he’d had to use on it in order to age it, and he didn’t think the shellac was quite thick enough, but he had always been too much of a perfectionist.

“What are these words here?” Keller indicated the lines of tiny Russian script outlining the hems of the saint’s sleeves. 

“A prayer for mariners, I would think. St. Nicholas is a patron saint of sailors – see the sextant in his left hand?”

Keller nodded, pursing his lips. “You do nice work, Caffrey. With any luck, my friend will like this enough to provide the distribution I’ll need for the counterfeit Euros.”

“Well, good luck then,” Neal said as insincerely as possible and Keller left, locking Neal in behind him. 

As he left, Neal allowed himself a laugh, though it was a bitter and resigned one; the words he’d painted on the image were no prayer and would probably get him killed. 

They said, “This icon is a fake and this man intends to cheat you,” in Russian.

xXxXxXxXx

**Present Day**

“Fuck you, Keller,” Neal snarled.

_“Now, now, is that any way to speak to the person who holds the life of your affianced in his hands? I have to say, I’m hurt I didn’t get the save the date announcement, Caffrey.”_

“What. Do. You. Want.” Neal said between gritted teeth.

 _“Why, to finish what we started last time, of course.”_

“The icon? Is that your only tune?”

_“I can still use it.”_

“You’re pathetic, you know that? What makes you think Sergey will deal now?”

_“He already is. There’s a touring exhibition of 18th Century Russian Orthodox art that’s premiering here next month.”_

Neal already knew that – the signs had been going up all around the city. “You expect me to help you break into the Met?” Neal held up a hand at Diana and Peter’s shocked exclamations; the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s security was as impenetrable as the average Federal Reserve Bank’s. “Are you completely insane?”

_“You already know the answer to that question. But I’m not a fool either; the pieces have only just arrived at their storage facility. That place, I think, is no match for a determined Neal Caffrey. I’m texting you an address. Be there in thirty minutes.”_

“What, just like that? I’ll do nothing for you without proof of life.”

_“You’ll have that too, but if I were you, I’d get Burke to remove that little bit of jewelry around your ankle. Wouldn’t want the FBI to know ALL our secrets.”_

Keller rang off and within a second, a photo text chimed through on the phone Neal held; there was a picture of Clint, bloodied but alive, glaring into the camera, along with an address somewhere in New Jersey. Neal couldn’t suppress the moan of frustration that escaped his throat. 

“Neal, you can’t go,” Peter said, a hand on Neal's arm; he swayed slightly on his feet and Diana put out a hand to steady him. 

“You can’t stop me, Peter.”

“The Bureau has resources, protocols.”

“Which I expect you will bring to bear with all the talent and skill you possess, Peter, but I’m going to go meet Keller too. We’ve got to give Clint every chance in this. You know… you know he’ll kill Clint. Please… tell me you understand?” Neal met Peter’s eyes and wouldn’t look away; it had been Neal's going off book that had helped bring Peter back when Keller had kidnapped him.

“I can’t let you break the law, Neal.”

“Then don’t ask me where I’m going.” He kept staring into Peter’s eyes, not blinking, until Peter finally relented.

“Just tell me you’ll be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Neal replied. “Now there’s just the matter of this thing.” He lifted the pants on his left leg and moved his foot. “Don’t want the Marshals to be too upset.”

Peter fumbled for the keys in his pocket, his hands shaking. “Have a seat, Boss, you’ve had a nasty knock on the head,” Diana said kindly as she guided him to one of two chairs that were nearby. Neal followed and put his foot up on the other. Diana leaned over and unlocked the tracker, but seized Neal's pant leg before he could move to get his attention. “You be careful,” she warned him, her eyes wide and intent on his. “You promised me I could be a groom’s maid.”

“And you laughed at me,” he pointed out. 

“Didn’t mean the answer was no.”

\----

Neal drove Diana’s car to the address Keller had texted him, a warehouse amid warehouses out in the Meadowlands. The parking lot was virtually deserted at this time of night, except for a single car he surmised belonged to a security guard. He approached the building from the side, eyes scanning the roofline; cameras covered the entrances but not much else. 

Clint’s phone rang in his pocket. “I expect you’ve arrived,” Keller’s voice purred.

Neal glanced around, spotted someone in another parking lot, watching him through a set of binoculars; he noticed it wasn’t Keller. “I see you sent a friend – won’t you be joining the party?”

“Me? Nah, I’ve got to look after a sick friend. He’s doing rather poorly.” 

Neal's gut twisted inside him. “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he told Keller.

Keller only laughed. “The security alarm is an Addison Triplex; there’s one guard at the front door. The icon’s in the loading bay – I guess the patron saint of a third tier European city doesn’t garner much extra security these days. I weep for the decline in standards, I really do. I’ll call you in an hour to check on your progress.”

“Why aren’t you doing this yourself?” The line went dead before Neal got an answer. Neal dialed three numbers from memory until he hit the one Moz was answering this week. “Moz? I need a hack.”

\----

Neal leaned against the back of the warehouse, only emerging when he saw the headlights of a New York City taxi pull up and Moz emerge from the driver’s seat. “What the hell, Moz, have you not heard of being circumspect?”

Moz rolled his eyes. “I pulled the specs for this place, and trust me, they’re not seeing us.” He lifted a black duffel out of the back seat and walked up to Neal. “Where’s the demarc? Roof?” He groaned at Neal's nod. “You know I hate heights.”

“The building’s only three stories,” Neal pointed out as he followed Moz. 

Minutes later they were on the roof and Moz had hacked into the building’s communications and video feeds for the security system. Moz sat with his legs tucked under him, a split-screen image of four different camera views, scrolling through them. “I can’t believe this place has only got one guard on duty – I feel like a kid in a candy store. Remind me to come back again soon.”

“Eyes on the prize, huh Moz?” Neal called from his position near the hatch that was the building’s only access to the inside from the roof. He had used the tools Moz brought to cut a hole beside it and was working on exposing the wiring around it so he could bypass the alarms.

“Oh. Sorry. Anyway, it looks like the guard’s just getting back from his rounds – you maybe have an hour.”

“I’ll need ten minutes. If I can just get this damn thing to –“ A satisfying click under the pressure he’d been putting on the pliers he held made him smile grimly. “About freaking time,” he muttered and gingerly opened the hatch. When no alarm sounded, he completed tying off the bypass on the circuit’s wiring, then stood up. “You bring the blueprints?” he asked Moz.

Moz handed him an iPad with the blueprints already displayed, then indicated where the cameras were. The path through the halls and to the loading bay, where the icon was supposed to be, was circuitous but not difficult to manage. “That’s it?” Neal asked, rolling his shoulders and stretching.

“It’s almost too easy.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither but I have no choice. Wish me luck there aren’t any guard dogs or hidden alarms.”

“Break a leg,” Moz said, crouching down beside the opening as Neal made his way down the ladder.

The only problem Neal encountered in the extraction of the icon was the noise he made as he was prying its crate open, and the fact of its age and fragility – Neal didn’t want to scratch or damage the surface of it. He climbed out onto the roof and closed the door, then he and Moz eliminated all trace of having been there and climbed back down to the parking lot.

“So what now?” Moz asked when they’d gotten to Diana’s car.

“I call Keller and take this to him, I expect,” Neal answered, using a blanket Diana had in her trunk to cover up the painting and sliding it carefully into the back seat.

“Have I mentioned I don’t like this? It was all too easy. Why wouldn’t Keller just do this himself?”

“If I knew that, Moz, Clint would be safe and at home this evening. Now let me go – the sooner we get this over with...”

\----

Neal parked the car in front of a darkened building in the Bronx that was apparently an auto repair shop. Keller had given him the address when he’d called and then hung up when Neal had asked to speak with Clint. Neal approached the side entrance cautiously; the only sound on the street was someone driving by a block away, the loud rap music playing on the radio echoing ominously off the surrounding buildings. If this were any other situation, he’d have bailed by now, but it wasn’t and the life of the most important person in his life hung in the balance.

When he entered the shop, an overhead light came on; it was barely bright enough to light the place, but it beat the illumination that had been filtering in from the street. Keller was standing in front of him, a group of the kinds of thugs he favored doing business with arrayed in the background. Neal only had eyes for Keller, however.

“Lovely to see you this evening, Mr. Caffrey,” Keller said, his lips quirking up in a smile. His small eyes glittered with menace.

“Cut the shit, Keller. Where’s Agent Jones?”

“He’s here.”

“He had better be alive, or –“

“Or what? You’re a bit outnumbered here,” Keller pointed out.

“Or Sergey never gets this icon,” Neal said, pulling the switchblade he’d taken from Moz out of his pocket, and holding it to the serene countenance of St. Nicholas. 

Keller held his hands up. “Now just calm it down,” he said. “Let’s not do anything rash there, Neal.” He began to back away, heading to a darkened office in the back corner of the shop.

Neal followed, his eyes on Keller and no one else. “Easy now,” he warned as the other man reached the door and turned slightly.

“Just switching on the light,” Keller pointed out.

“Where’s Clint?”

“He’s inside,” he said gently, and Neal wondered when he’d become the unstable person in this scenario if Keller were treating him like he had a bomb strapped to him. “Come out of there,” he ordered and Keller complied. 

Neal went to the doorway and, sure enough, Clint was inside the room – the same one from the picture Keller had sent him earlier. Clint groaned and raised his head, blinking rapidly in the suddenly-harsh light, and Neal's knees nearly turned to jelly to see him. Their eyes met, and Neal saw pain there, and uncertainty, and fear. He had to go to him, to see how he really was.

Neal shoved past Keller and into the room, crouching down to look at Clint more closely. His face was badly battered, his left eye nearly swollen shut, and he slouched sideways in the chair as if he were favoring his left side; Neal suspected bruised or broken ribs. 

He clenched his teeth. Clint was bound to the chair, each limb zip-tied down. “Gonna get you outta here,” Neal muttered, fumbling to use the knife one-handed to free Clint’s right wrist, his other hand still holding the icon upright against the floor. 

“Neal,” Clint said, his voice tense, a warning. The cocking of a gun behind him told Neal why; he slid the knife into Clint’s right hand and turned. 

“You gonna risk ruining the icon?” he asked Keller, looking him right in the eyes. “Isn't that why you went through all this trouble?”

“The icon is icing. You were the endgame all along,” Keller replied, a triumphant smirk on his face and Neal saw the truth of it in his eyes – Keller really did intend to kill him.

“Huh,” Neal said, disappointed in himself for not seeing it coming.

Keller cocked his head to the side, the gun pointed squarely at Neal's chest. 

With a shout, Neal erupted from his spot on the floor as Keller took the shot, the icon Neal held before him deflecting the bullet. Dropping the painting, he leapt at Keller, his left hand grabbing the man’s wrist as he slammed Keller against the wall. The second shot buried itself harmlessly in the ceiling. 

“Neal!” Clint shouted. Neal sensed movement behind him – he hoped Clint was using the knife to free himself but he couldn’t chance a look at him – he and Keller were locked in a struggle for control of the gun. Neal had Keller’s shooting hand pinned against the wall, his right arm against Keller’s collarbone, preventing much movement. Keller clutched at him with his left hand, his fingers digging into Neal's neck. Neal rammed Keller’s right hand against the plaster wall repeatedly; finally, the gun fell to the floor.

His hand freed, Keller used it to punch Neal in the face; it was not a hard blow – there wasn’t enough space for it – but his next blow was to Neal's midsection, enough to force Neal back somewhat, giving Keller room. His blows were wild, unfocused, and Neal deflected most of them easily. He drew back his right fist and aimed a quick jab square in the man’s nose. Keller’s head snapped back, and Neal's left glanced across his jaw.

Keller went down like a sack of rocks, and before he knew what he was doing, Neal was on him, straddling his chest with his hands on Keller’s throat, and squeezing.

Keller’s fingers clawed at Neal's hands, but they were unable to budge them. All Neal could see was the face of the man who’d caused him so much pain, the man who’d kidnapped Clint, and all he wanted in that moment was to see him dead.

“Neal!”

Clint’s voice cut through the haze in his head, but Neal's body did not immediately react; he squeezed Keller’s throat harder, the man’s face turning an alarming shade of purple. 

“Neal!” Clint shouted, and Neal could feel his lover’s hands on his shoulder. Having freed himself from the chair, Clint was trying to pull Neal off Keller. “He’s not worth it! THINK!”

“No,” Neal muttered. _No more._

“FBI! NOBODY MOVE! THE PLACE IS SURROUNDED!”

Neal sensed chaos erupting in the main area of the repair shop as Peter and Diana and about a dozen other agents inexplicably stormed the place. Confused, he let up on Keller, who took a deep and painful breath. Neal let Clint pull him off and to his feet, staggering back against him for a second. 

“I – I could’ve –“ he began; he was shaking from exertion and adrenaline, his mind still reeling.

“I know,” Clint soothed, his hand squeezing Neal's bicep. “Don’t think about it.” A movement beside Neal made them both look up; Keller was fumbling for a second gun he had strapped to his ankle.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Clint warned, bringing up the other gun, which he had somehow picked up from the floor during the struggle; he cocked it and pointed it at Keller’s head as Diana rushed into the room.

“Do I want to know what I missed?” she asked, taking in the scene.

“No,” Clint said simply two more members of the Harvard crew entered the room and cuffed Keller.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Clint said through a wince; obviously he was not.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she said archly and stepped over to take Neal's hand. Neal realized with surprise he was still shaking. 

“I would’ve killed him,” he said, the shock of it only just settling in on him.

“Yeah, well, someone should’ve done that a long time ago,” Diana muttered, squeezing his hand. 

“How did you find us?”

“Check the hem of your pants – I slipped one of those RFID tags inside it when I took off your tracker.”

The knowledge of it seemed to shake Neal out of his stupor. “Sneaky. I like.”

She grinned, then looked at Clint. “You really do look like hell. Come on, ambulance is already on its way.”

\----

“…three cracked ribs and a probable orbital fracture – we’ll see how it looks once the swelling’s gone down,” Clint’s doctor was cataloguing his injuries, and Neal supposed it could be so much worse. “I’d like to have a plastic surgeon consult on that, actually – see if you’ll need a surgical repair.” The swelling around Clint’s left eye was so bad he looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Tyson and Neal could barely look at him.

Now that he was safe and Keller was finally behind bars, Neal couldn’t look at him for other reasons as well. When the doctor left, Neal stood beside the hospital bed staring at his shoes. 

“Babe,” Clint started, reaching out for Neal's hand, but Neal took a step back. 

“Not now,” he said, his voice raw. “Not yet. You could have been killed. Do you know what that means?”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“This is _Keller_ , Clint. If he’d killed you, it would have been my fault. He targeted you _because of me_.”

Clint went pale. “Neal –“

“I already caused the death of one lover, Clint, why would you do that to me? You should’ve realized this could happen.” 

“I didn’t think – I – Neal, _please_ ,” there were tears on his cheeks as his lower lip trembled. “I love you, I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m sorry.” 

Tears were falling down Neal's face too. “I’m sorry too,” he said and left the room.

“Neal!” Clint shouted after him, but Neal did not look back.

\----

“Hey now.”

Neal glanced up to see Diana standing over him, a Starbucks cup in her hand that she held out to him. “This isn’t decaf, is it?”

She made a face. “Bitch, please.” She sat on the couch beside him – the family waiting room at this hospital was surprisingly comfortable. “How’s it going?”

Neal put his coffee down and rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes. “The doctor said he’d be fine – might need plastic surgery for his face, that is, if we want him to still look handsome for the wedding photos.”

“So there’s still going to be a wedding?” 

“Of course.”

“Because I’m not so sure your fiancé thinks so. He’s sitting in there thinking you’re going to break up with him over this.”

Neal paled – he hadn’t thought about anything beyond his own hurt and anger, but despite that, there was no way he’d break up with Clint. “I was maybe too hard on him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He’ll think twice next time, though.”

“That’s really harsh, Di.”

“I’m a harsh bitch sometimes.”

They sat silently for several minutes. “Do you know what it is to hate someone so much you could kill them?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do with that?”

“You bury it deep, Neal, and you hope you don’t ever get the opportunity to act on it.”

“I could’ve killed Keller tonight,” Neal said, staring into the middle distance. “You know what stopped me?”

“Nope.”

“What it would do to Clint if I went to prison. I could never hurt him like that.”

“Yeah? Do you forgive him?”

“Of course I do. I love him.”

\----

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Clint was standing at the window in his hospital room when Neal walked in; when he turned around, there were tears in his eyes. “Neal,” he said, taking a step forward. He stumbled forward and Neal rushed to him, catching him in his arms. “Please don’t leave me,” Clint whispered into Neal's neck.

Neal raised his left hand to hold onto the back of Clint’s neck, his right was around his back. “I’m not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to protect you, to keep you from being hurt. That’s all that was in my mind.”

“I believe you.”

“I’ll never do it again, I never want to hurt you like that. I promise.”

“I know, Clint, I know.” Neal pushed him gently away slightly and kissed him. “I’m sorry too, I think I was a little hard on you.”

Clint sniffed. “You were very hard on me.” Neal laughed. “But maybe I deserved it. A little. Or a lot.”

Neal caressed his injured eye gently with his thumb. “Only a little,” he said fondly. “I love you so much. Stop getting kidnapped.”

It was Clint’s turn to laugh. “Me? What about you? Do you know how many of the grey hairs on this head are because of that?”

“Grey hairs?” Neal said, stepping back and placing both hands on Clint’s head to pull it down for inspection. “How can you tell?”

“ _I_ can tell.”

 _“Where’s my Clinton?”_ a familiar voice could be heard from down the hallway. 

Clint stiffened. “You called my mother?”

Neal shrugged apologetically. “Well, I was mad at you.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
